I feel out how SHE feels me writing this; me attached/sown/stitched into her body. I write a word; SHE feels a pang of it. I use this as a way to cut. Cut cut cut into myself. And she watches me silent as a swan. Someone once said “Swans are violent creatures.” Then another person said, “What is the mother’s desire?”

and a fade from. 7 people are standing over me yelling, “What’s her name?” Her name. My eyelids are feel upside down and I know what has happened. She has taken it all. Managed to drain me. I know because the purpled spiral tube that unraveled beside me know hangs empty.

Differentiation happens the second week of gestation. The rapid division and re-division of cells continue but they become different. One is different from the other. You are not me. I am not you.

The third week the embryo has made a home. The mother’s bloodstream brings nutrients and takes away waste. Eating and Shiting. If the mother’s body detects the embryo as “foreign” the body dispels it. Goodbye

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happens during the first years of primary school. The rapid language acquisition at these years will separate natives from non-natives. Do you know Mr. Potato head? Do you now the “Ten Little Indians” song? One is different from the other. You are not you.

By the third grade, the country’s bloodstream brings nutrients in and takes away waste. If the country detects the child as “foreign,” Goodbye.

This pastoral placement

That girl next to the brown needs of horse nothing
that to see with the nothing horse needs that to see with
this pastoral placement
that the girl is always so difficult
black of hair as black
the fronts that spill in the smile, why do not you sonríe, mija
the girl next to the horse is in the pair for a photo
the corners do to appear progressively smooth edges
of painting to cake of country
SHE in no condition for photographs
its shirt the color of sky does its but invisible
your of par waves of the cinch of the horses with veins
she runs the finger by departing smooth here
he is a smooth fleshy red one
here is rose of weaving
when she touches the mare she feels its own condition
here he is a black one púbico
a dirty road that indicates in
here is pain to burn yellow

I exercise articulation in front of a crow. In front of a crowd. I perform articulation and inarticulation. I draw out the words taught. Stretch then into nonsense. Stretch them into nonsense. When I say “partnership.” When I say partnership they think this is art. I let the words roll out long and thin. They weaken with my breathe. I test my long. Lung capacity with of. A man in the crowd drags his eyes away from me. I exhale blood until I am caught in the d. I tell them I will be asking questions I can’t ask. I cover my mouth at the first utterance. I make my mother a puppet. I say holla me llamo but muffle it under my palm. I muffle my own Spanish voice. The crowd laughs. The mother puppet and I exchange looks. Then I practice inarticulation. I put the mother puppet over my head. I do this to sing. I start of. I start out. Slowly through the paper bag. I dance the movements gentle. I sew a man rolling his eyes in the back. The crow asks for a title. They say does this have a title.